


red whispers on the wind

by Maeve_of_Winter



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Gen, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Team as Family, Winter Olympics, past Jack/Kent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29278452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeve_of_Winter/pseuds/Maeve_of_Winter
Summary: It's his rookie year, and Kent has gone from being an unofficial member of the Zimmermann family to barely being able to talk to any one of them on the phone. So when he's brought onto Team USA's Olympic roster at the very last minute, there's not going to be anyone rooting for him in the stands.At least, that's what Kent thinks, anyway. It turns out that one member of the Zimmermann family isn't as unreachable as he would have believed.
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson & Alicia Zimmermann, Kent "Parse" Parson/Jeff "Swoops" Troy
Comments: 9
Kudos: 89
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	red whispers on the wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nausicaa_lives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nausicaa_lives/gifts).



> Happy Valentine's Day, nausicaa_lives! Thank you so much from requesting Alicia and Kent! I love to consider what their relationship to each other was like, and writing this fic gave me a wonderful chance to do that! I have so many ideas for them and was delighted to have the opportunity to write them down. ❤️
> 
> An enormous thank you for IprotectKennyP for the beta. You're amazing! 💯

From the day Kent was brought into the Zimmermann family to play on Jack’s line in the Q, Bob was a constant presence at their games. Not their practices—Jack insisted that Bob shouldn’t be that much of an overinvolved hockey parent and Bob acquiesced without a fuss. But every game, without fail, had Bob in the stands, always surrounded by fellow parents. Beyond a preference for a mid-level vantage point, high enough to gain a bird’s-eye view of play but also close enough to watch footwork and stickwork, his reasoning was that the deeper the crowd around him, the less chance of anyone recognizing him and turning his son’s hockey games into impromptu autograph sessions. 

(Still, Bob unfailingly obliged every request, always amiable and approachable, even at the end of a disappointing tournament series. Whenever Kent spotted him charming yet another fan, he was struck by the wish that he could be like Bob someday.) 

And then after arriving home from each game, a tape review commenced in the Zimmermann family room, also at Jack’s insistence. Bob and Kent obliged, with Bob offering commentary and observations, each of his suggestions for improvement liberally sprinkled with praise. And every spoken thought was jotted down in a notebook by Jack as he nodded seriously, his eyes only leaving the screen to glance at Bob’s face.

But whenever Alicia was home, she extracted Kent from the game tape reviews with a fond roll of her eyes, cutting off Jack’s protests with an upheld hand.

“Every once in a while, there has to be more to life than hockey,” she said firmly. “Kent and I are going to enjoy a cup of tea out in the sunroom, and anyone who wants to can join us.”

So the two of them would settle on the porch, with the sunlight streaming through the windows and setting the room softly aglow. The atmosphere there was more cozy and comforting than anywhere else in the house, the room done in relaxing earthy hues, the furniture all cushy papasan chairs draped with velvety throw blankets. There, Kent would curl up in a chair, wrap himself in a blanket, and chat and laugh with Alicia for hours. She’d ask him about school and books and movies, and he’d ask her about celebrities and awards and movie sets. Each of them would cradle a steaming earthenware mug of maple ginger tea, flavored with Alicia’s guilty pleasure of French vanilla creamer, neither its sugar nor fat reduced in the slightest. The fragrant aroma of the spices always tickled his nose, and Kent would breathe it in, marveling at the unexpected but somehow welcome relief of having a break from hockey.

And the thought would strike him, at times, how utterly human Alicia really was, clad in everyday clothes and with a face almost bare of makeup. Surrounded by sunlight and reclining against cushions as she discussed his assigned English lit reading with him, Alicia Zimmermann ceased to be a glamorous celebrity and was simply a person, approachable and personable. Kent considered it a privilege to know her in her off hours. 

Sometimes Bob joined them on the porch. Jack never did, instead preferring the company of the game tape.

In contrast to Bob, Alicia didn’t put in many appearances at their games throughout most of Jack and Kent’s season. Her name was far more well known than Bob’s these days, and if she wasn’t on a set or a shoot, she was busy with post-production work or a press tour.

Usually, if she did drop by for an afternoon, it was during playoffs—the important games, the ones truly worth watching, the ones where she had a chance of seeing them become champs. And in between games, Kent would bound up to her and fold her into a hug, Jack following and joining them at a more sedate pace.

Even when his own mom had been around, she’d never particularly given a damn about hockey or what it meant to him. So having Alicia give up her day to sit in the stands when she definitely had better stuff to do? That was worth the world to him, and Kent never stopped himself from telling her as much.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the Academy Awards and the Golden Globes combined,” she’d tell them warmly, hugging him back, and Kent wouldn’t be able to hold back a grin, utterly thrilled. It meant a lot to hear her say that, because she’d already snagged two of each, and was always predicted to three-peat with each awards season.

But Alicia’s time as a spectator wasn’t exclusively limited to tournaments. Every once in a while during a regular game, when his shift was finished and he was on the bench alongside Jack, Kent let his eyes wander from the players zipping back and forth before him, his ears filter out the clatter of skates, and his gaze roam the stands. Sometimes he found Alicia there, sitting beside Bob and wearing a red and black plaid wool coat and a pair of plain black slacks or jeans. Her blond hair, the same pale gold color that mislead strangers and even some acquaintances into believing she and Kent were related, would be scooped back into a tidy ponytail, and she looked like she could be any hockey mom in the world, not a jet-setting celebrity in her own right.

Whenever Kent caught a glimpse of her, he tried to catch her eye and wave so she could know he saw her, know that he appreciated her rushing to the red-eye just so she could watch them play. Sometimes she saw him and waved back, beaming over at him like they’d just nabbed the Memorial Cup.

There was something special about spotting her in the stands, and Kent’s mood lifted whenever his gaze landed on her, no matter how frustrating or disappointing the game on the ice was turning out to be. Bob’s presence was a given, just like their game tape reviews immediately when they arrived home, but Alicia’s was a treat, a surprise he could look for and forward to.

For the first few months of his rookie season with the Aces, Kent meticulously refused to look over into the stands. Tickets sales for the Aces’ 2009-2010 season skyrocketed, and the seats were packed with onlookers curious to glean the cause of all the fuss surrounding famed actress Alicia Zimmermann and her coke fiend son and his presumed coke fiend BFF. Never before in Aces’ history, and probably never in hockey history, had a rookie with stats as hot as Kent’s ever been anticipated to be such a washout. Spectators poured in with every home game and some away ones, eager to see if this night would be the start of his downfall.

And if Kent didn’t go searching for her, he could pretend Alicia was among them, lost in the crowd. That she was still watching him, clad in her red plaid coat despite the desert heat. Just like she’d been back when he and Jack were playing in Montreal, cheering him on as if nothing had changed.

* * *

A few months into his first season, an invitation to the Olympics manifested in early January. Initially a shock, it ultimately proved to be a logical conclusion. The reasoning behind it was explained to Kent by Wolfie, veteran captain of the Aces, as Kent sat at the island of Wolfie’s French country-style kitchen, staring at the rooster-shaped copper dessert molds ensconcing the breakfast nook and struggling to comprehend that he was going to be whisked off to Vancouver in just two weeks’ time.

“Injuries,” Wolfie remarked sagely, rifling through his liquor cabinet, which happened to be carved out of a reclaimed bourbon barrel. “In the end, it all boils down to injuries.”

The schedule of the League’s season placed the Olympics smack in the middle of the season, the prime time for injuries to be afflicting more experienced players. As Wolfie told it, Kent’s place on the roster was undoubtedly not the committee’s first choice, but simply the only choice available, due to various members of the primary selection being physically unable to commit to participating.

“When the guys who actually get ice time are out on IR, but you still want to put together a team to compete at an international level, you’ve got limited options,” Wolfie explained, vigorously shaking the martini mixer to fix Kent a congratulatory cocktail. “You can call up a young kid who’s burning up the ice and clawing his way up into the top fifteen scorers on the timbits of play he does get. Or you put it all on some pylon who’s probably past his time and risk finding that out in the middle of an Olympic match. Sounds weird, maybe, but you’re the safe bet.”

“That’s probably the first time in the history of my career anyone’s said that about me,” Kent remarked, breaking out of his stupor as irony twisted painfully in his chest. He hadn’t been a safe bet to go first overall, and then he’d been viewed as a powderkeg rather than an asset by management when he’d snagged an official spot on the Aces roster afterward instead of being busted down to the farm. But now, for the Olympics, suddenly he was the safety net of US hockey. The prospect was utterly bizarre to consider.

Wolfie flashed his canines in a smile that lent credence to his nickname and splashed the shaker’s contents into a glass, sliding it toward Kent. “You’re young yet. There’s still plenty of time for that to become the talking heads’ catchphrase for you.”

* * *

If the rest of the team had any similar reservations to Kent’s, or if they shared Wolfie’s contemplations on the matter, no one divulged any of their thoughts to Kent. Instead, his teammates gave him a tremendous sendoff full of backslapping and enthusiastic encouragement. 

“Can you fucking imagine if you flew back here with the gold?” Danno wondered, as he, Mads, and Rainer clustered around Kent in awe. “You’ve already dragged us up to third in the League, and a medal on top of that? You’d be a certified beaut.”

“It’s always been a team effort,” Kent said immediately, a reflexive response ingrained in him by incessant questioning from journos.

The three of them cracked up at that, Mads snatching up Kent’s snapback to ruffle his hair.

“Careful, bud,” he cautioned playfully. “Talk much more like a hockey bot, and us Canadians won’t be able to call you a smug and cocky American anymore.”

Meanwhile, Teddy, the vet who Kent lived with, offered up his own advice. 

“Whatever anyone says to you when you get there, you’ve earned your place,” he told Kent, his gray eyes serious and almost perpetual smile absent from his typically good-natured features. “You’ve put in the work and you belong where you’re at, Parser. It would be a crime if that roster spot went to anyone else.”

Elena, Teddy’s wife and one of the few WAGs Kent had met beyond Alicia with a career of her own (and maybe accustomed to feeling out of place because of it), waited until they were alone to share her own wisdom. But once they were, she didn’t hold back.

“If you ever don’t know what to do or how to act, smile,” she advised, propping her feet up on the coffee table and digging out one of her ubiquitous mystery novels. “It pisses off the people who don’t like you, and it convinces everyone who wants you gone or thinks you shouldn’t be there that you’re perfectly happy and confident where you are. So it’s a win-win.”

Teddy and Elena’s daughters were both young, Lily in first grade and Maggie in kindergarten, respectively. Neither of them allowed Kent to leave without a parting gift.

“I drew a picture of you,” Maggie explained, carefully handing a piece of construction paper laden with crayon scrawls over to Kent. “It’s you, and they’re letting you fly the plane because you won the Olympics.”

Not to be outdone, Lily presented her own masterpiece. “I thought the Olympics sounded boring. So instead of you getting an Olympic medal, I drew a picture of Princess Leia giving you the _Star Wars_ medal. See? There’s Chewie, and there’s the Death Star blowing up over in the corner.”

And Jeff Troy, the dark-haired D-man who Kent had grown the most comfortable spending time with out of everyone in the Aces organization, gave Kent a parting gift of his own. They’d just completed their last practice at the T-Mobile Arena before Kent was scheduled to depart and were chatting as they strode toward the parking garage, when, without warning, Jeff leaned down to lay a light kiss on Kent’s lips.

In an instant, for an instant, time froze, they both froze, and Kent stared at him, breath caught in his lungs, panic rising along right alongside expectations as he wondered desperately if history was repeating itself. 

Then Jeff came in clutch with relief.

“A kiss for good luck,” he explained sheepishly.

The simple remark shattered the tension between them, and they both chuckled, panic draining from Kent as a new hope streamed in to replace it. 

_Maybe_ . . . just _maybe_ . . .

With a spark of excitement, he cast a coy glance Jeff’s way.

“Maybe I need some extra luck,” he suggested. “Since I’m going to the Olympics, after all.”

A shy grin tugged at the corners of Jeff’s mouth, and he dipped down obligingly as Kent raised his chin to meet him.

* * *

“Show those cocky Canadians what you’re made of,” Alicia encouraged him when he called up her and Bob to share the news with them. “When Bob was active, those snobs were always referring to me as ‘Zimmermann’s wife’ whenever I got mentioned in the press, as if I’d never accomplished anything myself.”

Kent grinned so wide he thought his face would split. “You think I can do that?”

“You’ve made the Olympic roster your rookie season, haven’t you?” Alicia asked in turn. “I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do, Kenny.”

Neither of them spoke of the draft and how Kent had emerged as first overall when everyone and their hockey coach had predicted it would be Jack. But it hung heavy in the air around them and remained even when the call finished, lingering like a beleaguered ghost who’d grown tired of its own tragedy.

Back in June—God, was that really only last year?—when it had become apparent that Kent and Jack were neck-and-neck for first overall, he’d dreamed not of the draft, but the Olympics. Of competing with Jack on an international stage, of both of them being able to take charge of their team, their country, and determine who would emerge as not just the better player, but the better leader.

Never had Kent imagined it would be as early as next February. No, 2014 was the earliest he’d figured, when they’d had a few years to establish themselves, when they’d both been racking up goals and assists and beating their personal best for season after season.

But it was only 2010, and here he was.

Never had Kent imagined he would be going to the Olympics for Team USA, without Jack there to match him on Team Canada. 

But here he was. 

And never had he imagined that neither Bob or Alicia would be attending the Games, and he’d have no one in the stands at all to support him.

But here he was.

* * *

When the preseason had kicked in back in September, Kent’s teammates on the Aces had been none too impressed with him. No doubt their skepticism was fueled by the whirlwind of rumors surrounding Jack’s overdose and (highly speculative) tales of their “party first, practice second” approach to hockey. Once games had started and Kent had in turn started putting up points, though, the grumblings had ceased.

It wasn’t a surprise, though, to find that Team USA held similar doubts about him. 

“I swear to God, if Parson humiliates us in front of the Canadians, I’m hanging his ass out to dry with the media. What the fuck were they thinking, sending us the Cokehead Kid?” a Penguins player complained, either not realizing or caring that Kent was still within earshot.

(Kent knew each of his teammates’ names, but truth be told, he didn’t think of them that way. He’d known them as his opponents first, the guys he’d have to smoke out on the ice to prove that he belonged in the show. He didn’t know or think of them as his teammates, and the line of division hadn’t faded just because they now all played for the national team.)

A Preds player agreed. “I’ve got family flying in from Pittsburgh to watch me win. I don’t want to disappoint them just because Parson is more interested in snorting lines than playing on one.”

There was no one flying in to see Kent. And since there wasn’t, a small, selfish, spiteful part of himself was tempted to prove these assholes right and throw the game just to rile them up, just to prove them right in the most humiliating method available.

But he had promised Alicia. And Maggie and Lily called him daily, with the help of Teddy and Elena, to wish him luck and say they miss him. And Wolfie texted him inspirational quotes each morning, some of his own invention. And Jeff sent him photos and videos, sometimes of the guys and sometimes just from him, all with the same message: _I’m rooting for you._

That spiteful piece of Kent disintegrated whenever he thought about them, and once it did, he resolved to play like Bob was in the stands, like he might spot Alicia if he looked hard enough.

* * *

With Alicia and Bob and the Aces at the forefront of his mind, Kent nabbed the game winner. Against Canada. In overtime. 

“I knew you could do it!” hollered the same Penguins player who’d been cursing his name just days earlier. “I fucking _knew_ it!”

Kent was tempted to call him on the lie, but a Leafs player grabbed him for a victory smooch, and then a Blues player tackled him into a bear hug. Both gestures knocked the breath straight out of him, igniting a warm flush in his cheeks.

Then, as he could barely comprehend the situation, as giddiness buzzed through him and left him dizzy, he and the rest of Team USA lined up on the ice, and officials looped medals around their necks one at a time. The gold gleamed beneath the arena lights, the metal clinking and swaying with each shift of their skate blades.

With stunning alacrity, Kent found himself launched from the persona non grata of Team USA to its resident fair-haired child. Suddenly, he was considered the extreme kind of exceptional, the kind where he could break Nancy Kerrigan’s leg and no one would look at him sideways about it.

“How does it feel to be America’s golden boy from Sin City?” one journo asked him after the medal ceremony.

“What do you think about fans already claiming your middle initial ‘V’ stands for ‘Vancouver Has Been Destroyed’?” queried another. 

Normally, Kent meticulously controlled his expressions when in the vicinity of the media, giving a cocky smirk when the situation called for confidence, or a pleasant smile when humility was necessary. If he didn’t like the attitude of the journo speaking to him, he refused to allow any expression on his face at all. 

Tonight, though, Kent granted himself permission to wear an unabashed grin. “The ‘V’ stands for Victory. It always stood for Victory.”

The answer wouldn’t endear him to any Canadians out there, and no doubt Don Cherry would grab that sound byte and rake him over the coals for it on the next airing of _Hockey Night._

But if nothing else, the ensuing controversy might bring him closer to Alicia, and they could bond over being the American partner who was always perceived as inadequate in comparison to their Canadian counterpart.

* * *

After finishing with the media, the rest of Team USA climbed aboard the shuttle to return to the hotel for a celebratory dinner and then a long night of partying, toasting to their victory for hours to come. Kent emphatically did not. While he shared their thrill, gratified at a job well done, he didn’t quite trust reality at the moment. The entirety of the past few weeks muddled together in a hazy wash behind him, slipping past his fingers before he could fully grasp anything but the general gist. In a strange way, he found himself cautious to believe any of it had actually occurred, wary that if he did, he would jolt awake to realize that it had all been just a dream.

So he broke off from the group, tossing his gear onto the pile to be bussed back to the hotel, and then unobtrusively slipping out one of the back exits. The instant he stepped outside, the cold wind cut through him like a flurry of razor blades hurtling across his face, but he could barely bring himself to mind. If anything, maybe the glacial air could ground him, convince him that the past few hours were real. 

Besides, nothing could convince Kent to return inside; his fiercest desire in the world in that moment was nothing more than to make his own way back to the Olympic Village in peace, to come to terms with the reality of his golden goal in the dark and the quiet. The medal that still hung from his neck clinked quietly with his stride, mostly muffled by his jacket. Every so often, his hand drifted up to press his rapidly numbing fingertips to its hard surface, reassuring himself that it remained where he thought it, that this entire Olympic escapade couldn’t be reduced to a mere fantasy.

Like how his visions of entering the League alongside Jack, of taking the show by storm and proving their mettle to the hockey world, ended up as nothing more than a fantasy.

A year ago, ten months ago, eight months ago, Kent wouldn’t have passed the chance to party, down some brews with the boys and drink in the atmosphere and energy. There hadn’t been anything he’d loved more than thriving off the energy of his team after a win and dragging Jack along with him.

But now, alone and an Olympic champion at eighteen years old, he thought of maybe just celebrating with a few phone calls. It was past Lily and Maggie’s bedtime, but maybe he could call Teddy and Elena and chat with them, possibly pass on a message to the girls for the next morning. Rainer, Danno, and Mads had watched the match and were currently blowing up his phone; he should probably get back to them, indulge himself in their enthusiastic congratulations.

And maybe—maybe he could call Jeff and wish him goodnight and sweet dreams.

Just as he was weighing this idea, Kent crossed onto a long strip grass that divided the employee entrance from the private parking lot. There were a number of people coming and going, shadowy figures that seemed distant and unreachable once beyond the overhead floodlights, but none were lingering. And with it being winter in B.C., who would?

Still, Kent was careful to stick to the darkest edges of the lot, not wanting to be recognized or interrupted in his internal war. Brood on his own? Or reach out to his teammates, his—his—

 _His friends_ , he realized, warmth flooding through his chest and streaming into every limb, even with his fingertips, now stiffening as a result of the icy cold. Wolfie, Teddy, Elena, Rainer, Danno, Mads, Jeff—they were his _friends._

Just because Jack wasn’t here—that didn’t mean Kent was alone. Just because Jack hadn’t stood opposite him on the ice as his rival to witness and acknowledge his titanic victory—that didn’t mean his Olympic journey was incomplete. Throughout his time, he’d collected stories to share, and he’d be bringing them back to Vegas to share with the people who’d chosen to stay in his life.

No sooner was Kent running this new conclusion through his mind, testing it once and twice and again to be sure it was sound, worried, just as he usually was, that his certainty would be yanked away from him as soon as he dared to trust it, when a flash of color and motion at the edge of his vision caught his eye. A glint of gold glimmering beneath the towering light, just as his medal had, a hint of red that seemed almost lurid against the dark.

“Kent!”

Wheeling around in an one-eighty, Kent turned to find Alicia striding toward him, gliding toward him as if she were a figment of a far-flung dream, the smile that graced magazine covers now aimed entirely at him.

“Alicia.” If he hadn’t spoken her name, Kent wouldn’t have believed he could form words, and once he did, he couldn’t say anything more, only stare.

Far from being deterred, Alicia closed the gap between them, throwing her arms around his shoulders. Kent returned the embrace reflexively, but then wholeheartedly, grinning at the familiar scratch of the wool beneath his bare fingers.

She was wearing the red plaid coat, precisely the same one she’d always worn before.

As if nothing had changed.

So much had. Nothing was the same any longer, like a puzzle with missing pieces that could never be recovered or replaced. 

But Alicia was still here, in spite of everything.

When they broke apart, Alicia reached up to smooth a gloved hand over his cheek and rested it there, the smile still on her face, the wind whipping her casual ponytail in all directions. 

Anyone else might have offered congratulations. Another parent might have expressed pride or praised his performance.

But Alicia just shook her head at him in amused disbelief. “What are you doing out here in the cold and dark?” she asked, and then added teasingly, “Is this how Canada treats the Americans who beat them in gold medal games?”

A laugh bubbled up within Kent, ringing out clear in the dark and cold. A part of him didn’t believe Alicia was really there with him in Vancouver, that cautious part of himself still persisted, warning him it might just all be a dream. 

But this time, he careened straight over it just like he had crashed the net earlier that night to get that golden goal.

She was here. After all those games when he’d had no one, after thinking he’d had no one this entire series, he’d had his crew in Vegas and Alicia as well. 

Those days of being Jack’s liney in the Q and Bob always being there to watch him were long over. But now Kent knew that sometimes, he’d still be able to look into the stands and find Alicia.

“Thank you for being here,” he said, and it seemed useless, trite, but warm gratitude flooded every crevice of his consciousness, its heat scouring out any remaining doubts. 

Smoothing a cashmere-clad thumb across his cheek, she gazed at him with infinite fondness. “I wouldn’t have missed tonight for the Academy Awards and the Golden Globes combined.” 

The familiar response sent Kent’s heart beating in a happy tattoo, elated at regaining someone he’d considered irreversibly lost to him.

“I have so much to tell you,” he said to her, not even sure where to begin, simply brimming with affection and wonder for her.

Smiling once more, Alicia linked arms with him. “You can tell me all about it over dinner,” she suggested. “If an Olympic champion like yourself has the time for me, of course.”

The wool of her coat rustled at the shell of his jacket, but Kent didn’t care, bracketing her in close, marveling that now he’d hit his final growth spurt, he was almost as tall as she was. 

“Barring a few phone calls, Alicia,” he said, walking arm in arm over to her car and feeling as though everything in his life was all right for the first time in eons. “I have all the time for you in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> I purposefully didn't use the names of any RL hockey players because I didn't want this particular fic to crossover with hockey RPF, but I had ideas of who each player mentioned from a different team could be. Feel free to ask in the comments if you want to know about any one of them in particular (especially the one who kissed Kent).
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ I'm on [Tumblr](http://maeve-of-winter.tumblr.com/) if you ever want to chat!


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